


i've got this thick skin

by ToAStranger



Series: Elastic [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not seek comfort, but it is given to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've got this thick skin

The first time Stiles touches him, it’s like heaven. 

Not because it’s Stiles.  Not really.  Mostly because it’s sweet.  Peter has come to expect a callousness when people handle him.  Stiles, though, is different.

They’re in the middle of the preserve, wet and muddy, Stiles’ shoes squelching from the muck with each step he takes.  Pausing a moment to catch their bearings, Stiles touches him with a fleeting little brush of his fingertips over Peter’s cheek, wiping something away, grin lopsided and bemused.  But Peter leans into it and shudders and Stiles looks at him like he’s just cracked open the world and revealed some of its secrets to him.

Peter moves away from it with teeth grit.  They walk the rest of the way back to their pack members in otherwise silence.  There are cogs turning in Stiles’ head, Peter knows, and he is surprisingly grateful to catch sight of Erica and Boyd when they finally stumble upon them. 

They wait there, all of them grousing under their breath about the cold and about swamp monsters that have no business in their town.  Peter feels Stiles’ eyes on him until Derek shows up, Isaac and Scott in tow.  Standing from where he’s crouched, Peter approaches Derek, and his nephew shoulders him aside in order to address the whole. 

Standing off to the side, Peter shuffles, jaw flexing.  His gaze strays and meets Stiles’ from where the boy is staring at him from across their gathering.  The pinch of Stiles’ brows makes Peter want to curl his lip up into a sneer.  Instead, he turns his focus on what Derek has to say. 

After that, Stiles starts touching him more and more.  It’s little things— a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades when reading over his shoulder, a brush of his fingers over Peter’s when handing each other things.  All these little things that slowly drive Peter up the wall.

It isn’t until they’re hitting the books hard one night that Peter finally snaps.  He’s in the middle of a passage, and Stiles is puttering around in Peter’s kitchen while the others are out on patrol.  Stiles pads back in, setting a cup of fresh coffee in front of him just the way he likes it, and places a careful hand on the back of Peter’s neck.

Peter moves quickly, catching Stiles by the wrist and gripping tight.  It earns him a soft gasp, and he glowers up at Stiles with a snarl set over his mouth. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Peter asks—but it’s a demand, and judging by the way Stiles grunts out a soft sound when the bones in his wrist grind together, it’s understood as such. 

“Giving you coffee?”

Peter’s jaw flexes, and he stands so sharply that his chair nearly knocks over, reeling Stiles in and pressing him jarringly back against the edge of the table.  The boy winces and bites the inside of his cheek, his free hand twitching for whatever little secret weapon he has hidden away on himself.  Peter catches that one too, leaning in and pressing it flat to the hard wood so that Stiles can’t move it.

“Don’t be an evasive little shit, Stiles.” Peter hisses, eyes narrowing.

Stiles huffs out a laugh.  “I really can’t help it.”

“ _Stiles_ —“

“I’m not doing anything, Peter.  Honest.” Stiles says.  “Just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Peter’s head tilted.  “You and I aren’t friends, Stiles.”

“I thought we were,” he says softly, hissing as Peter’s claws prick dangerously at his skin.  “Aren’t we?”

“No,” he grunts and releases Stiles, pulling away to head into the kitchen.

“Peter—“

“Go home, Stiles.  I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

“Peter, for fuck’s sake, a little compassion from someone won’t kill you.”

“I don’t need your _pity_ ,” he spits.

Stiles barks out a laugh, following after him.  “What makes you think it’s pity?”

“Why else would you be doing it?”

“Because I like you,” Stiles says, earnest as he steps closer to where Peter is hovering on the edge of wanting to tear Stiles to shreds or run as far as he could away from here.  “Because you deserve things other than cruelty.”

“What makes you think that,  _boy_?  A year ago, you were lighting me on fire—“

“A year ago you were killing people and half out of your goddamn mind, Peter.  Now you’re not.”  Stiles insists, tone sharp and then soft in what seems like barely more than a moment.  “Now you’re different.”

“I’m no different than I was.”  Peter says.

“Then hurt me,” Stiles shrugs, moving in close, a hand reaching out slowly.  “Stop me.”

Peter inhales sharply, teeth grinding tight.  He watches, rigid and trembling faintly, as Stiles draws closer.  He doesn’t pull away when Stiles’ hand rests softly over his chest.  The touch seems to drain the anger out of him.

He leans forward into the press of Stiles’ palm, his own hands curling and uncurling at his sides.  Stiles licks his lips, bright eyes darting to where his fingers are spread over the heavy thud of Peter’s heart and then back up again.  Peter shudders, and his jaw twitches as Stiles takes one slow breath, then another, and Peter finds himself mimicking it.  His chest rises and falls with it, and Stiles offers up the smallest smile as he shuffles just that bit more into Peter’s space.

There is so much heat in that one spot; Peter thinks he might burn up.  It is scalding, and Peter’s own hand comes up to rest of Stiles’.

“It’s okay, Peter.”  Stiles says.  “It’s okay to want affection.”

Peter’s hand curls tight around Stiles’, as if he is about to pull it away from himself; he is still for a long moment.  It is only when Stiles’ fingers curl into his shirt and tug that he moves.  With a halting breath, Peter moves towards him.

Their toes bump.  Stiles stands there, hand still resting over Peter’s pulse, and lets Peter seek out what he needs. 

Eyes shut, Peter rests their foreheads together.  His hands come to rest, large and clutching at Stiles’ waist, bunching up the fabric of the boy’s shirt as he takes shuddering breaths.  When Stiles’ other hand comes to rest at Peter’s bicep, there is a quiet noise, and Peter’s mouth twists in distaste with himself when he realizes the needy little sound came from himself. 

Stiles is quick to hush him.  His hand skirts up over Peter’s shoulder and curls around the back of his neck, settling there and giving a firm squeeze.  Peter’s throat goes tight.  He does not say anything; does not have to.  Stiles just stands there with him, hands ginger and strong against his chest and his nape.  For a moment, Peter allows himself respite. 

“It’s okay.” Stiles mutters.  “It’s okay, Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt Fill. 
> 
> Prompt: "touch-starved Peter cuz everyone and their mother hates him and Stiles is all "LET ME LAY MY HEALING HANDS ON YOU C'MERE LET'S CUDDLE" I have feels about tactile wolves" by anon
> 
> Original and much shittier version can be found here: http://doesitlooklikeiwantedtoknowthat.tumblr.com/post/89606029587/prmt-touch-starved-peter-cuz-everyone-and-their


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